The blinding, clinical glare of the surgical lamps hummed with an indifferent, rhythmic buzz.
Inside the underground emergency operating theater, life-support monitors beeped in frantic, irregular spikes. A team of senior medics stood huddled around the stainless-steel operation table, their gloves drenched in fresh crimson blood as they worked with utmost intensity.
On the table lay twelve-year-old Hide. His chest was heaving in shallow, agonizing gasps, his skin as pale as winter frost. Across his lower abdomen, a horrific, jagged tear stretched —the brutal remnant of the moment Rosh's talons had plunged into his flesh to forcibly rip out his core.
"He's losing too much blood! His innards are trying to gush out." a surgeon shouted, as he picked up another pair of stiches, the ones he just did had ripped the skin out.
"Press harder! Give me the plate, we need to fix his organs first!" the head doctor barked, sweat pouring down his forehead.
